spiritual healing

The solemnest moment.
The entire congregation in the church files past the front pew exchanging condolences with each beareaved family member.
I am in an altered state of deep spirituality.
Lost in a meditation on the ephemeral nature of mortal existence.
Not many good looking women at this funeral, I muse to myself absent mindedly.
A vision materialises in front of me.
Shapely, shiney and with superb blonde special effects.
My handsome jaw drops.
"I'm Shona," she says.
I'll bet you are, thinks me.
"I saw you in a play once," she says shaking my hand.
My handsome jaw stays dropped.
Have to say something.
"Gurgle queep," I managed.
Not my best comment as comments go, but I think I just about carried it off.
"You were very good," she said.
"Woggle," I managed.
Scholars of the work of Lord Baden Powell will be well aware that a woggle is the small leather circlet which cub scouts use to secure their neckerchiefs.
The girl was still standing there.
My jaw was also still firmly dropped.
Abruptly the Chief Executive of Allied Irish Banks appeared beside her.
"This is my daughter James," he said informatively, hustling her away.
He was right too.